I'm Not Your Paradise, Girl
by truglasgowgal
Summary: There's just something about her, Rachael, something about her that he can't stay away from. Besides, she makes the idea of not dying even more appealing. Who is he to turn her away? Rated for language.


So with no other entries (so far!) in this category, I doubt many people will read/review this fic, but still, I wrote it – and managed to finish it – so figured I might as well post it :) If anyone does read it though, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

I won't lie, there is complete gratuitous use of the F-word (and other swear words) in this. If this offends you, please look away from this post. Thank you.

Otherwise, enjoy…

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><p><strong>Title:<strong> I'm Not Your Paradise, Girl  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. 'tis a crying shame indeed. Title is a line from 'Scar Gardens' by Grieves  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Beaver Falls fic. There's just something about her, Rachael, something about her that he can't stay away from. Besides, she makes the idea of not dying even more appealing. Who is he to turn her away?

.

_It gets under your skin, life. ... It's a habit that's hard to give up. One puff of breath is never enough. You'll find you want to take another._

.

He calls her on their way to the airport.

Rachael.

He – Flynn – he calls her.

He knows he shouldn't, he fuckin' _knows_ he shouldn't, but he does it anyway. And he _knows_ he berated his best mate for doing the same thing; thinking about a girl he's only known for six weeks rather than him, but this is different. And anyway, it wasn't even that he was _that _annoyed, it was just A-Rab and his fucking shitty priorities with girls over his mates. Yeah, the irony in that statement coming from him, _of_ _all people_, does not escape him. Whatever. Fuck it.

So, anyway, he calls her.

When she answers she says his name in that surprised tone that she used to use on camp whenever he appeared in place of whoever she'd been expecting instead. He knows she was expecting A-Rab.

He hangs up.

He tried putting an ocean between him and reality after he got diagnosed, he figures a dial tone's good enough for now.

She calls him back.

Of course she does. It's _Rachael_.

She says the line cut off; he says he must've dialled her number by mistake.

She asks him if he's ok; he says he's fine.

She tells him she's worried; he says she shouldn't be.

He lies and she lets him and he thinks maybe that makes her just as fucked-up as him. Except then she ruins it by saying, "I know you're lying."

And in return, he tells her, "I'm not lying, Rachael."

Then he sighs, like he's tired and he can't believe she'd even question his honesty after everything. He's dying and he's sure he's going to Hell anyway so why not add some more things to feel guilty over to the growing pile he's accumulated thus far?

"Sure you're not," is her short reply to that. She doesn't believe him and they both know it and just to prove it she adds, "Well, I'll be here the next time you accidentally dial my number. And the time after that too… I meant it when I said you're not alone in this, Flynn."

"Right," he responds, purses his lips and throws a look off to the side, straight out the window to the setting sun. Maybe if he catches a glare off one of the rays he'll go blind and he won't have to watch, won't have to look into her eyes or anyone else's, as he fucks everything up before it fucks him up.

It's never exactly been his plan, not really a life-choice either, more just the way things go. He might be a royal fuck-up who likes to pretend otherwise, but his mum raised him better than that, and he never really excelled at the whole ungrateful little shit routine, so he minds his manners and musters up his prize smile even though she can't see him.

"Thanks, Rachael."

"Anytime."

She's not as fucked-up as he is, not even close, so he wonders why he's so damn insistent in dragging her down with him.

His best friends call over to him and he shoves his phone back in his pocket and saunters over to meet their impatient hand gestures and expectant looks. He tosses them a can each and says he'll drive, takes the keys from Barry's hand before he can stammer out a question over whether that's a good idea or not, and jumps into the front seat as A-Rab shakes his head at him.

They're taking their fucking time over it so he slaps the side of the car to get their attention and calls over his shoulder, "Well, come on then."

He doesn't have time to be sitting around waiting for those two fuckwits to move; if they're with him they're gonna have to pick up the pace a bit. He tells them so. They're less than impressed. A-Rab rolls his eyes at him and tells him to shut the fuck up and Barry chimes in with, "Yeah, stop being so fucking morbid all the time… you'll ruin my high."

He twists round to find his best mate's already lit up and is slouched against the back seats with a lazy grin on his face. A-Rab laughs with him when he sees this and lifts his can in salute before taking a swig. With his best mates by his side and the heat of the sun on his back, travelling toward the great beyond; he could quite easily fool himself into thinking that this is the life; this, right here, with them.

Except he's dying.

He's being completely shafted here with this shitty half-life they've palmed off to him while he's supposed to be in his prime. He's got great fucking hair, he tans better than A-Rab and he's never had to worry about being short of female company. And he's dying. How is that even remotely fair?

He's fucking _dying_.

So, really, what other excuse does he need to drag the whole world into this sorry tale with him?

Fuck.

He can't do this slow, drawn-out, agonising dying shit. He's into drama, life on the stage, big performances and all that. Big-ass swords and midnight showdowns with your mates at your back; standing on the edge of a fucking cliff and coming back from the brink because they've _always_ got your back.

Fuck.

He's screwing up all their lives.

He didn't even want this. He didn't want any of this.

He calls her again at the next stop.

He tells himself she was camp counsellor for a reason and he's in dire need of some fucking counsel right now.

He conveniently ignores the part of his brain that tells him this is one of the ways he's fucking everything up; it's not so difficult since his brain's the problem in the first place.

She picks up on the first ring and he swears it's relief he hears in her voice this time.

Then again his brain's fried to fuck, so what the Hell does he know?

She answers when he calls; he figures that's good enough for him.

.

_I should have never even shown you, what it's like inside the world I keep a lock on._

.

He's lying in bed the first night back staring up at the ceiling of the bedroom he's had since he was a kid. His old football posters are still tacked to the walls amid the life-size paper images of girls in bikinis or less; he can still hear his mum telling him to use blu-tack because she didn't want holes in her walls, not that he listened. When she'd seen what he'd done she told him he was too bloody-minded for his own good and he'd just told her it'd save her redecorating and flashed her a cheeky grin. He's always done as he pleased; now he just has a get-out clause.

He picks up his phone from his side table and stares into the glow until water starts to stream from the corner of his eyes and he can tell himself it's because of the fucking alien light strobe he was so insistent on beaming into his eyes for so long.

He's usually better at spitting out lies, even to himself. This is just sad now.

"Flynn, it's 1am."

That's what she says to him when he finally presses the call button his thumb's been hovering over for long enough.

"Shit, sorry. I totally forgot about the time difference," he tells her, only he's not really sorry at all.

As he turns his head to the opposite side, dampening a spot on the pillow, he finds his old alarm clock flashing neon _666_ at him and he can't help but let out a laugh.

He flips it right ways up, the thing's been through the wars so he figures it's the least he can do; it still doesn't change to the right time, just flickers a dying _999_ at him now. Hell can just damn well wait, somebody get him to a fucking hospital already, he needs his head checked.

"Is everything ok?" Rachael's voice breaks through his psychosis.

"Yeah, fine, totally brilliant, why wouldn't it be?" He palms her off like he wasn't the one who just came looking for her concern, but she calls him on his bullshit.

"Because when people call you at 1am it's usually cause for worry," comes her matter-of-fact response. She's not even kidding.

She's obviously never been drunk-dialled before; he figures he'll fix that sometime this week when he goes out with the boys. He's gonna tell her just that, but he reckons it might just be more fun to let it play out on its own, so he replies instead:

"I can't call you just to chat?"

She's having none of it. Seriously, she _always _thinks he's hitting on her, playing an angle. His charming ways are fucking lost on this girl. If he hadn't slept with her already he'd be questioning his ability right about now.

"Because you've always been one to just unload your feelings," she returns and that makes him laugh, because now who's taking the piss?

"Hey, you've only known me six weeks," he says to that, and then throws her a bone, throws her the whole fucking skeleton that's no longer in the closet because of her. "An' besides, you managed to wrangle my big bad secret out of me pretty quick when no one else could."

"You only told me that because I caught you having sex in my office and it was your skewed idea at getting me on board with your promiscuous way of living," she responds, and she's still having none of it.

He hits his head off his pillow as his lips spread into a smile. She's right and they both know it, but _promiscuous_, really? Who even speaks like that?

_Rachael._

"Well?" she prompts and she sounds so damn pleased with herself too.

"Whatever," he dismisses her shit attempt at gloating and redirects with, "The point is I can talk to you, right?"

"Of course," she answers easily and he can tell she genuinely means it.

"Right, so let's talk," he returns decisively, settling himself back into a comfy position on his mattress.

"Right now?" she sounds somewhat surprised, which he can't understand.

"Why not?" he questions, because seriously _why not?_

"Because it's 1am in the morning here and I'm guessing it's pretty early where you are too," is her response, like it's so obvious she can't believe _he's _questioning it.

"And?" he answers; of course he questions it.

"_And_ don't you think we should maybe go back to sleep and we can _talk _another time," she replies to that.

"Nah, right now's good for me." He reckons his smile could be lighting up the dark like the Cheshire Cat's right now; it's always entertaining to wind her up.

"I'm so glad," she dryly responds.

"Come on," he cajoles. "You're awake now anyway, what's the problem?"

"I'm only awake because _you _woke me up!" is her exasperated reply.

"Yeah, but, I mean you're still awake and talking to me when you could've just hung up and gone back to sleep ages ago," he reasons, and really how could she question that logic?

Apparently by doing this: "Fine, I'm hanging up and going back to sleep now."

"Nah you're not, don't lie," he fobs off her attempts at sidelining him.

"I'm not lying, I'm going to hang up now – consider this your one minute warning," she says and he can't quite tell if she's joking or not, it's not as easy to read her when she's not standing in front of him.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Well that sucks. "…Rachael?"

"Yes, Flynn?"

"Speak to you later, yeah?" He tries for casual, but he reckons it probably comes off as pretty needy. Fuck, when did he get so fucking pathetic?

"Oh, so you don't want to speak to me now?" she asks of that.

"You said you were hanging up!" he exclaims; he's really putting all his drama experience to good use here.

"Well, maybe I changed my mind," she counters, and she sounds amused with the whole affair; like she's quoting his mum whenever she reminds him that _"it's a woman's prerogative"_ to do that and smiles at him like she enjoys winding him up. She probably does. The feeling's fairly mutual.

"Knew you couldn't just leave me like that," he tells her and he's grinning like he's just won a fucking prize.

"I was picturing you alone and pouting, what can I say? I felt bad," she replies, and she still sounds so damn pleased with herself, but he doesn't even care anymore.

He laughs. "Fuck it, go to sleep."

"Oh, so now you're permitting me to end the conversation are you?" she asks, and he can imagine her with her hand on her hip looking him up and down for added effect. Fucking women.

"If I don't you'll probably be all crabbit tomorrow and you'll make me feel bad by sending me a picture of you looking like shit and saying it was 'cos I interrupted your beauty sleep or whatever," he returns.

"Always the charmer, Flynn," she remarks and he just _knows _she's shaking her head at him.

"My wily ways are lost on you anyway," he answers with a laugh.

"Mmm, true," is her short retort and he laughs again.

"Night Rachael."

She lets out a little laugh and it's got him all nostalgic; why did summer have to end again? "Goodnight Flynn."

He's smiling when he hangs up.

Fuck. This isn't good. This really _really _isn't good. _Fuck._

.

_Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late at night. You are your own worst enemy._

.

His mum tells him he needs to stop being so dramatic. That's how she says it too: "Stop being so bloody melodramatic, Andrew, and listen to the doctor a minute, would you?"

They manage to get him on a medical trial for a new drug that everyone seems to have high hopes for. The side effects are pretty mild and from what he's read and heard of other people's reactions what he's feeling right now seems the norm, so his mum's ever hopeful he's got the real deal and not been stuck with the fake placebo shit. He's not so sure. It's not gonna stop him dying and it's not gonna make his hand miraculously start working like it used to, but his mum's happy, so there's that.

She makes him stay at home whenever he has a hospital appointment. He lives with A-Rab and Barry every other day and night of the week, but that's apparently irrelevant. He's her son and she just wants what's best for him.

Her whole face lights up when he relents and says he'll stay and she scampers off to make his bed up for him. His Auntie Kath just looks at him and shakes her head and tells him it's great that he's back to being mummy's boy now, but it would've been better if he hadn't left her up shit creek without a paddle for the entire summer beforehand. He rolls his eyes at her and tells her to fuck off and go and enjoy one of those cancer sticks he so _thoughtfully_ brought back for her in abundance courtesy of that little gem known as Duty Free. She grins like the cougar she likes to think she is (that's a pretty fucking disgusting thought right there – sure, he loves his Auntie Kath, but let's put it this way, she's no Pam Jefferson) and throws her arm over his shoulders, dragging him with her out the back door. She hands him a cigarette and wordlessly leans over to light it for him before leaning back against the pebbledash and taking a long drag. She repeats the process another two times, only speaking when he crushes the third stub into the grass beneath his foot.

"Really going for it today, son. You hoping the cancer'll get you before anything else has the chance to?"

When he turns to look at her she's on the verge of laughing at him because she knows the thought's crossed his mind, but she's still holding out the pack to offer him another.

His mum just rolls her eyes and tuts at the pair of them when she finds them standing side by side chain-smoking by her back door.

"Honestly, it's not enough that you've trampled all over my flowers, you've got to try burn what's left of the poor things with all your old fag butts!" She shakes her head at them and shoos them off the little patch of ground that's basically just covered in a mass of green. "One's as bad as the other."

"Julie, love, I think they're weeds," his Auntie Kath points out and highlights her disinterest in the matter by flicking the end of her cigarette at them so the ash rains down on the distinctly non-flower-looking things growing out of the mud.

"They are not!" his mum protests and actually leans down for closer inspection.

He nods, agreeing with his Auntie Kath and breaking the news to his mum, "Nah, mum, those're definitely weeds."

"Dammit!" is her exclamation at that. "And here I've been watering them and tending to them for weeks now! I thought you'd be all impressed when you came home and saw what I'd done with the garden."

He and his Auntie Kath dissolve in fits of laughter and soon his mum's joining in with them. His mum latches onto him and he hugs her back, and she tells him she's missed this, she's missed him.

Fuck it, he's missed her too.

Being home's not so bad sometimes… and other times he wishes he'd just fucking done it when he had the chance and ended it all at Beaver Falls.

.

_You grow up to become living proof of your parents' limitations. Their less-than masterpiece. _

.

His mom calls her. Her name's Julie and all she wants is the best for her son. She says he's not doing so good – Flynn – Andrew. She says Barry and A-Rab are trying, but he seems in a flunk and she doesn't know what to do. She tells Rachael she jotted her number down from his phone, that she was his last dialled number; Rachael imagines she tops the lists for most frequently called and longest length of call too, but she doesn't need his mother to tell her that, the charge from her own phone bill is enough to make the point. His mom just thought maybe she could talk to him, maybe she could help.

So instead of picking up the phone and calling him, instead of dropping him an email or setting up a video-chat, she goes to see him. It's not planned, not something the 'old' Rachael would ever have done, and probably not something the 'new' one should either, but she does it anyway.

She doesn't tell him she's coming, makes her way to his house on her own, rings the doorbell and waits on his front step – and that's when the full weight of what she's done hits her: the moment his mom answers the door. She starts apologising, telling the elder she doesn't know why she's there, it's not something she'd ever usually do, she's not even sure why's she's doing it now because nothing's changed really between then and now, she just couldn't think of anything else after the other woman called and – Julie throws her arms around her like Rachael's her only hope for the future and says, "I know why you're here, love. Thank you."

He walks into the living room to find her chatting with his mom over tea and biscuits as if this is what happens every Sunday afternoon in his home.

"Rachael?" he asks, all incredulous, because sure he might talk to her practically every day and video-call her every other, but – "You're here… in my house… in my living room… having tea and biscuits with my mum, like this is just what you do every Sunday afternoon?"

"Hey," she greets him softly, with a smile that could make him melt even without the heat of the summer sun.

She walks over to him and opens her arms out to him like that night on the Fourth of July and he folds his arms around her like she's what he's been waiting for all along.

"I told you that you weren't alone," she whispers to him as she holds him tight and he nods into her shoulder and tightens his arms around her and she doesn't know how she could've ever second-guessed her decision to come here when she can't imagine being anywhere else right now.

The thing is; she knows she's not 'old' Rachael anymore, but she's also not quite what she envisioned 'new' Rachael to be either.

The only thing that's really different is she's here with him now, so maybe she's still Rachael and he's still Flynn and it's the rest of the world that's changing rather than them.

It's a nice thought.

.

_I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty… you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are._

.

She thanks Mrs. Spencer for putting her up, apologising again for all the trouble she's caused with her impromptu visit, but the elder tells her it's no bother at all, she's no trouble. Trouble is standing in the corner watching the pair of them. His mom has set up the guest bedroom for her and he goes all bashful when she tells them this; scratches the back of his head and gives her a rueful smile like he's the innocent party in this whole affair. His mother shoots him a look and rolls her eyes and she just laughs; a mother always knows her son.

She hears him that night; she's not trying to eavesdrop, but he's got the bedroom next to hers and the walls are paper-thin. The bed creaks and the sheets rustle and he whimpers in the darkness around a low growl of frustration and a moan between gritted teeth as she tiptoes into the room like the ballerina she never was as a child. She doesn't want to disrespect his mother or go against the woman's rules in her own house, but she can't sleep and she can't let him go on like this any longer and not do something about it. And it's why she's here, after all.

She whispers his name, shakes him gently by the shoulders, and gets nothing but the same tortured noises and twisted movements caught up between bed-sheets that she could've got without a front-row seat.

She says his name louder this time, shakes him that bit harder and then accidentally digs her nails into the skin of his exposed arms. _That_ wakes him up. His eyes snap open and _that_ makes her jump. One of his hands slaps over her mouth to cover the squeal she doesn't quite get the chance to release and the other grabs her round the waist to steady her after she stumbles backwards.

If this were a movie she'd likely be pressed up on top of him in his bed by now, but it's not, so she's still standing when he removes his hand from across her mouth and he's still half in the lands of slumber as she regains her balance.

"You – you were tossing and turning, making noises," she tells him when she finds her voice again, gives him a half shrug and a small smile in the darkness. "I was worried."

He drags a hand over his face, no longer tired but rattled, "It's all these fucking pills they've got me on, 'messes with my sleep… amongst other things."

"Are you ok?"

He lifts his eyes to look up at her fully and flashes her a smile. "'Course."

He winks at her for good measure, because she's not buying it and she presumes he knows that too.

"Got a gorgeous girl in my room, all concerned for my wellbeing – why wouldn't I be ok?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she returns with a frown; like that will really have any effect on him.

He laughs, proving her point. "Au contraire, my lovely Rachael, flattery will get me _everywhere_."

He tugs on her hand then, pulls her down to his level and kisses her. She imagines he does it just because he can; because he's Flynn and that's just what he does. Admittedly though she doesn't stop him, and she'd be lying through her teeth if she said she didn't enjoy it. But still, the boy remains far too cocky for his own good.

She pushes him back with a hand to his chest and he's practically pouting as he looks up at her.

"I'm not getting into bed with you," she tells him, giving him a look that tells him he can just stop that thought-process right there.

"Not even if I ask really nicely and promise to keep my hands to myself?" he's looking up at her with his version of puppy-dogs, but one of the tricks she imagines he has up his metaphorical sleeve, but she's not having any of it.

"Sadly I don't share the same high expectations in your ability to restrain yourself as you do," she takes great delight in responding; sometimes the chase really is half the fun.

"You really know how to wound me, you know," he grants her at that.

She laughs.

"And you think pretty highly of yourself," he repeats one of the phrases that started it all.

"Uhuh, this time you were definitely hitting on me!" she announces, even going so far as to point the finger of blame squarely at him, because there's no denying it this time and she has proof too – _that kiss_ – that kiss is her proof.

"Maybe… " he mulls over her point, "Or maybe I am just a poor _dying_ soul who was looking for some tender feminine comfort in the lonely twilight hours."

She echoes his own thoughts with the amused comment, "That drama degree of yours is really being put to good use here isn't it?"

He shrugs. "Meh, might as well cash in on it as much as I can before the thing becomes redundant."

"Your positive attitude is astounding," is her dry retort.

"What can I say? Being told you have a degenerative, terminal disease sort of puts things in perspective."

"Oh really?" she puts her hands on her hips as she stares down at him, eyebrows raised as she plays along with his charade, because she refuses to be the key-guest at his pity-party. "And what sorts of things might those be?"

"Oh, you know, seize the moment sort of things – like when a girl with a pretty smile has it directed your way you've gotta go for it," his eyes lift with the smile he shoots her way; it's a start, so she'll take it.

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm, pretty eyes too, and they're looking me up and down – that's a sure fire sign she's interested – no time to lose after all."

There's specks here and there of his old charming self, and she's determined to ensure he doesn't lose sight of that, doesn't lose who he is before it's taken from him.

"And he continues his attempts to charm her," she replies with a teasing lilt.

"And she continues to shower him in her loveliness," he says, not missing a beat, with a grin that could devour her.

She shakes her head, can't help it as her lips curve slowly higher, and leans down till they're so close they could Eskimo kiss like kindergarten kids but with all the intimacy of making love like the half-grown adults they're still learning to be.

"Goodnight Flynn," she murmurs, her lips catching his as she whispers the words.

She straightens up and he falls back against the pillows with a laugh wrapped around a sigh.

"You know I never pegged you as such a tease, but I tell you, you're fucking excelling at it now," he tells her as she makes her way towards the door.

"And I never pegged you as desperate, so I suppose that means we're both being gifted with a new sense of perspective on the other – although might I add, yours is purely your own biased, _incorrect_ opinion."

"Well, you know death, always putting things in perspective," he remarks, aiming for nonchalant, but falling short: you can't fool someone if you bare your soul to them every day.

"Well, death isn't coming for you tonight, so go back to sleep," she tells him; an automatic response with a promise barely shrouded beneath it: I won't let you go, not yet at least.

He smiles at her. "Night Rachael."

"Night Flynn."

.

_But even when I stop crying, even when we fall asleep and I'm nestled in his arms, this will leave another scar. No one will see it. No one will know. But it will be there. And eventually all the scars will have scars and that is all I will be, one big scar of a love gone wrong._

.

He kisses her at the airport before she leaves to go through security, before she leaves to board a plane and leave him altogether. He kisses her.

Fuck it, he might never see her again, and she's one of the best damn things to ever happen to him, so he kisses her.

And all the clichés and the poetry and the quotes from books and films and everything else? They're all true.

He doesn't care if that makes him a pussy – he's dying, what the fuck is calling him a pussy compared with that? – and he knows she'd laugh at him if he told her, Hell, he's cringing on the inside and wondering what the Hell's happened to him, but it's true.

He's cupping her face, holding her like he's holding the whole world in the palm of his hands, and who knows? Maybe he is.

She's been fucking good to him, and now she's leaving, he doesn't really give a shit if he's going all sappy because of it.

"I'm really gonna miss you, you know," he tells her, because he's not entirely sure if he's told her that already, but he figures he should, thinks it's something she should know, something she should hear him say. "Like, seriously, really fucking miss you- miss you."

She rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head as she says, "You just had to rephrase it, didn't you?"

He shrugs. "Figured it couldn't hurt."

She laughs and throws her arms round his neck, and he drops his hands to her waist and just holds her a moment while she goes all serious on him.

"I'm really going to miss you too, Flynn."

He nods, tilts his head to the side and lets his expression amplify his words, "Well, yeah, that was sort of what I was just saying… "

She nudges him in the side of the head and gets this little frown across her brow when she opens her mouth to tell him she was _trying _to be serious, but she's so damn cute when he's pissing her off he can't help but just kiss her again.

"And I am definitely going to miss doing that."

Her eyes are closed when he pulls away, but her smile splits her lips apart and sits high on her cheeks, and it's a fucking glorious sight if he's ever seen one. _She _is glorious.

The clock in front of him ticks loudly in his ears and its hands count down the little time they have left, like some cruel reminder that they were doomed from the start; they weren't made to last.

He pulls her close once more and just breathes her in; fuck, he is _really _going to miss her.

He kisses her temple, and whispers "thank-you" against the shell of her ear; and then just for old-time's-sake and so she won't leave him too teary-eyed and lovesick, he gives her ear lobe a quick nibble and pulls away with a chuckle.

She slaps him on the chest and he tries to keep laughing, but she's wiping the tears from her cheeks and her head's dropped to her chest and she can't quite meet his eyes.

This really is goodbye.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he tells her; trying to sound casual, like they're not saying goodbye, like this might not be the last time they ever see each other.

"I know," she says, skirting a look up at him, but the sad smile on her face betrays what they're both thinking.

It's not the same.

She throws her arms around him and he holds her and tries to let that be enough; tries to imprint the feeling of her in his arms into his memory.

When they break apart, she turns quickly and he tries not to choke up at the sight of her walking away from him.

He needs to do something, because fucking _crying_ in an airport terminal over the prospect of _possibly_ never seeing her again, is not productive for anyone. Besides, he's not a pussy – scrap what he said earlier, he's not a pussy, he's just gonna really fucking miss this girl.

"Hey, Rachael!" he calls out to her.

She stops and turns back to look at him and she looks so damn hopeful he could fuckin' cry.

"See you at camp next year, yeah?"

Her lips spread into a smile and she releases this little sigh like the weight of the world is off her shoulders, like she can breathe easy, he's going to be ok, and – fuck, she's gorgeous.

"Yes!" she exclaims, big smile and bright eyes and fucking _gorgeous_, "I'll see you at camp next year."

How's he supposed to let her down now? He's got her hopes up, he's gotta deliver.

He better not fucking die before camp next year, 'cause that'd jus' be shit.

.

_I promise to make you so alive that the fall of dust on furniture will deafen you._

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**The End.**

* * *

><p><span>Credits for quotes in order of appearance:<span>

Terry Pratchet, 'Hogfather'  
>Grieves, 'Scar Gardens'<br>Anonymous  
>Chuck Palahniuk, 'Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey'<br>J.D. Salinger, 'Catcher in the Rye'  
>Amanda Grace, 'But I Love Him'<br>Nina Cassian

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Thanks so much for reading, please let me know what you think :)  
>xxx<p> 


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